


Requiem

by gotzendammerung



Series: Diary of the Nameless. East. [2]
Category: Monster (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Post-Series, experimental fic, high levels of johanliness, johan being high
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2020-07-31 12:15:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20114959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gotzendammerung/pseuds/gotzendammerung
Summary: Waking up from a coma is a slow process, of darkness, of chaos, but also light and pain.





	1. Peace

That was the definition of true peace.

_Rain in a cold November night._

A place between unconsciousness and life, where thoughts, as light as feathers, registered in some remote corner of his mind, too far away to perturb. What felt like another dimension.

No, one’s attention was on the void, a lack of images, sounds, ideas, emotions. Neither a _place_. Like floating on an inexistent ocean.

That was peace.

_The warmth a room on fire. Ashes._

A steady breath.

_A smell of powder. Pain and blood. Darkness._

Time passed but there was no need to attain, to live. Existence itself seemed a choice, meant to be rejected.

_Wine red as blood. Broken glass on the ground._

Such was peace, one forgotten so long ago. And the silence.

All to perish eventually.

The process was slow and steady, like an ocean preparing to receive a storm. Ideas turning from teardrops to streams. And voices.

And scenarios.

_‘What is your name?’ ‘My name is Otto, my name is Hans…’_

_‘… all humans are equal... death.’_

_‘Hello, mother.’_

One shot_, then another, and another. A terrified look, and the sound of rain. The dark skies above._

_‘Good luck, detective.’_

_‘I’ll smother you with tones of flowers!’ And then, childish laugh._

Intention failed in rejecting them and all that was left to do was endure, there, in the eye of the storm, the collision of times.

Make it stop.

_‘You’re wrong, brother.’_

Please make it stop.

All of a sudden, the sight of a wasteland, the familiarity of it. Gray, barren land swept by the furious wind. The timid sunlight coming from nowhere. And the feeling… the heart-sinking feeling of solitude.

_‘Many people died. _Me_ and Anna were the only two people left in the entire world.’_

But Anna left. Only solitude remains.

All alone.

And all that was left, darkness, a welcoming sight.


	2. Confusion

As soon as consciousness was regained by one so did the storm, the memories, thrown to the consciousness like bullets.

That reminiscence – now the previous streams are considered so – felt alien though, like before, a spectator in front of a cinema screen, being bombed with meaningless drama.

Pictures and sound were followed by new periods of darkness, silence, just to begin suddenly all over again.

And again.

And again.

There was a moment when the realization came to one’s mind, of Death being a constant juxtaposition of nothing and everything, light, and darkness, in a disordered fashion. Death itself, life, set side by side. A collision of worlds.

Peace turning into the most extenuating experience, one that will last for an eternity.

And then, yet another change.

It had been darkness, for so long. And all of a sudden, light. A different kind of light, one that emerged from the other side.

The other side. Somewhere beyond.

No, there had been other moments, fragments of sound, color, touch. Brief stimuli in this chaos that emerged from death, that also came from that far away.

What seemed a remote source, a star in the middle of an empty universe, approached, relentlessly, illuminating with its light the everything brought by death until only the void remained. A void of light.

Lastly, Light killed Death.


	3. Realization

There were two realizations attained to the process of regaining consciousness, as terrible as they could be.

There was no such thing as self, no box to be contained. Neither a body. Only a figure, a mere shape, remained distant, disconnected. A puppet with broken strings. The fog to reach it was deep, dense, easy to get lost in. Yet the monster required no time to wake up in within, and again, its control grew strong, rapidly. The battle was lost before it started.

The second idea was more repulsive. One was alive, escaping death to find greater darkness.

_‘I thought I had gotten to the darkest place in the world… But then... ahead of me… I saw an even darker blackness.’_

After a while, one reached the body, through the fog. The sensation was familiar, the control of an instrument that remained remote, yet obedient. It was in no rush to move, though, not even capable. The eyes remained shut. So, all that had to be be done was wait, patiently wait for time to consume itself. There was a clear will to avoid ideas, memories, being stocked in a similar place where they came from. Buried under lifeless land.

One thought shone, more remarkable than others, apparently. That control must be regained, at any cost, over the monster too. No… one preferred to avoid monsters.

As time passed by, cogitation became clearer, one assumed, as little schemes could be designed. Ideas linked one another in a chaotic, but familiar fashion. One was able to recognize the foundations of that place, the wasteland, that one used to call mind.

However, what one called memories still made no sense, all that was left of that past time was confusion and pandemonium, an ocean of faceless lives, unmemorable places, white noise instead of spoken word. Sentiments… there were some, that for some reason felt linked to smell. The smell of flowers meant misery, the smell of libraries, fear.

Purpose… that died long ago.

The awareness that above all that disorder, the change, the light, and the darkness… there was nothing but stillness.

Alteration was a mirage. Nothing changed, nothing really did. Not anymore.

And in that wasteland, the figure of self stood lifeless.

Awaiting.


	4. Hallucinations

One’s eyes finally opened, a victory of boredom, mild curiosity. Light immediately blinded the weak eyes. Incessant, one tried and tried again until stains regained colors, contours, shapes and dimensions.

Then, one saw. There was a room, a window, a cupboard, a curtain, a door. One was lying on a bed.

A familiar sight, burned by light, too intense.

Memories rushed into one’s mind, remembrance of another room, with another cupboard, another bed… and pain and fear. One remembered fear, draining all energy of mind and body. The weakness, the despair.

This was a journey deep into darkness. There were no more stories after but the end, one recognized, the true end. And what came after it… the shattering.

The end was close, again.

White figures dancing grotesquely around one, clouding the sight of the room. Ghost haunting.

“… woke up a week ago... the process is normal…” One figure said.

“…been here since… two years…” Another.

“… is dangerous… a real monster…” Another, maybe the first.

Hands touch the body, the forehead, the wrists, check the eyes. And one knew what it means.

It was starting again.

The mere thought was more than enough, a stab of ice in the heart, bringing fear back, so much fear. The eyes opened wide, trying to escape the body, the arms, tense, grasped for freedom. One didn’t hear anymore, the alarmed voices, the bodies leaning over one. The grip, strong.

“Call Dr. Schneider! Run!”

“Fuck! Why the convulsions?!”

The fight against self was meant to be lost. There was sudden wetness around one’s eyes, failing to comprehend that was crying.

One could not move anymore, being hold against the mattress by the people in white. There was no escape, one knew, had to try anyway.

One didn’t realize three more people entering the room, the needles, the sudden fatigue that relaxed the body immediately. One was completely unaware, as all to be seen was the monster, one standing so close, in that same room, staring. It was back.

“Obluda…” one’s voice, before falling asleep again.


	5. Clairvoyance

Obluda was staring as one woke up, hours later. Maybe days. It was understandable, one thought, the monster was curious, always was.

“It’s you.” Obluda grunted.

One ignored both the message and its content. The ‘I’ was unknown, but one felt compelled to unravel. The nothingness was unbearable.

One had an idea, rather a memory, of something capable of bringing comfort, fight the nothingness from its very core.

One was not chained, nor tied, so tried to move. The process was slow and steady, Obluda was in silence and staring, hungry, and eventually one was able to move the face, fingers, then the neck and arms. Night passed by, and another day.

Night came back.

People in white came and went, always in a rush. There was something paramount about one. They, the monster and one, stared as the others took blood samples, checked again the temperature, the pulse. Moved the body. Another person entered and attempted to talk to one, who ignored everything that was said.

One heard, understood, yet disregarded.

Movement was achieved when the first lights of dawn entered the bedroom.

One was clumsy and fell when getting out of bed. One stood again, reaching for the chair close. Then one ignored the sudden pain in the left arm, the needle that pierced the skin further, the blood tainting the pale skin.

One reached the wall then, walking became a little easier.

From the two doors, the one on the left was chosen. A small room inside that bedroom. One suspected its function and therefore one’s objective might have been there.

The door was opened. The light was turned on.

A bathroom.

And there it was.

One. A reflection in the mirror.

Eyes wide open at the sight of an unknown face. An adult instead of the expected childish one.

No, one was an adult now. The remnants of memories of almost twenty years rushed inside one’s mind. A puzzle with too many holes in it, too many questions.

One pressed them underground, decided to ignore them, too confusing for now. All one wanted now was the mirror, the face.

And the answers entailed.

One… was a man, one discovered.

One slowly became a he, an arbitrary tag, he concluded, but a detail about one’s self, himself, that preferred to the lack of self. Being a she would have felt the same… still did. A part of him felt more comfortable as something closer to ‘she’... yet… he didn’t like either.

Still, one decided to took masculinity as a starting point.

His appearance was extremely important to him, he remembered. The image of his face, that belonged to him and only him. The color of his hair, his eyes. The shape of his nose and jaw.

He remembered a similar, yet sweeter face, too… who?

He remembered that same face, now, if only less emaciated. He liked it, the sensation of belonging onto something, the peace. One hand remained on the faucet, increasing his stability, while the other touched that face, making sure it was there, in front of him. He could breathe again, anxiety being slowly driven away while looking into those ice blue eyes on the other side. He was remembering the physical part of him, those same eyes now teary of relief.

He stayed like that, for some time, while the different pieces he had recollected about himself started building that what was called identity, whose core was that same face, the most stable knowledge he possessed about the fact of being.

But there was no name. He failed to find a name for himself. He was then, the nameless monster. There was no other choice.

And the thought itself was enough to stop his heart for a moment, desperation growing relentlessly inside him.

He had no name.

His legs finally collapsed, and he fell to the ground, on his knees. Feeling… feeling so much… and overwhelmed.

He remembered. All that was there to reminiscence, up to that very instant, the second bullet, the darkness, the chaos.

And then he cried, like the pathetic weakened child he wasn’t allowed to be, the brother he failed to stay, the human he never became. Because there were moments, a few, in which he was capable of comprehending. And lament.

It didn’t matter the effort invested, he would never be able to even grasp the meaning of being someone. Of having a name. Now all he possessed were memories, ones that remained detached from self, intrusive, untrustworthy. Insecurity invaded him since that fatal reunion.

He would never be able to have a normal, pleasant life. To feel any sort of happiness, nor peace.

The pressing solitude would never abandon him, until his very death, maybe beyond. He was as alone as anything could be. A figure standing in an infinite wasteland.

And finally, he understood the role others had played in his creation, the choices he made and their consequences. The ones others made upon him.

His shoulders, shaking in violent jolts. Face buried in his own hands.

He remembered Dr. Tenma, who thought his life was still valuable, who saved him twice.

Anna, for whom he deserved forgiveness, but only when it was too late. His twin, himself.

And the sense of failure entailed to his very existence. A toy broken for no one’s pleasure. His rejection to every single agent on that creative process. He had stopped being a tool for a state at the verge of collapse, but he had failed on making a good use of that freedom. Instead, he became a monster out of everyone’s control, including himself.

And then he made that difficult choice, the only moment when he had preferred to face the truth, the past he had been avoiding for over a decade, whose consequences had been further failure in the shape of misery and pain.

He sacrificed the chance of existing as a nameless monster to become a nameless man instead, and thus the only good in him: ignorance. And recovered the rejection. The abandonment. He, the child with messianic charisma, who failed in retaining the only person he truly ever cared about. The one unable to offer nor receive love from their very own mother.

He snuggled, in a pathetic way to try and find some comfort, slouching back against the wall, to fall into a semiconscious state. The sobbing didn’t stop until exhaustion took over.

When he was found by a couple nurses in that same position, hours later, he had regained his usual apathy, superficial.

He had made a mistake, concluded. Another one.

And the man who stood under the rain, waiting to be shoot, was him, now, and probably until his death.

Back on the bed, he had been connected to a dropper again, filled with a massive combination of drugs. Antidepressants and anxiolytics had been now included, by psychiatric prescription.

Finding nothing to contemplate, to say, to do, he slept and slept in a pathetic attempt to avoid reality. A strategy never used before. He wanted to escape, back to the coma, the ocean of void. Anywhere. But dreams worsened, now filled with a miserable childhood of ghosts and feelings, instead of monsters and darkness. The later was preferred.

It was punishment, he understood, for his sins, crimes, monstrosity. He was in Kinderheim 511 no more, but his fate at the hand of scientists was meant to be the same.


	6. Fugue

I… there was an I… and the I wanted to… 

… what did he want? 

“Can I call you Johan?” 

There had been a white coat roaming around for some minutes… maybe hours or days. It didn’t matter, time was meant to relapse… melt. 

It spoke again. 

“How are you feeling, Johan?” 

Who was that Johan? He closed his eyes, looked for that one but failed in finding anything named like that. 

Johan was his face. His hair, his eyes. His voice. All that was left for others to observe. 

Johan was a body, a figure. 

Johan wasn’t anyone. I… was I… one… the monster. 

‘You are alive to be punished’ The monster’s consciousness spoke this time. ‘They learned.’ 

One wanted… one… 

“He wants to go home.” Johan’s mouth decided to answer. 

‘Where is my home?’ a childish, hoarse voice came for beyond the barren land. ‘Is there a place I can call home?’ 

Was there a home? What was… a place? A smile? 

He had no such things, neither Johan, he had… no, he hadn’t. Once he had… then… what happened? 

I want to find something I can call home, to conceal my existence inside, and erase the rest. “I want to die…” Death was my closest home. He agreed. 

It had been the fire, what destroyed all, the flame of choice. 

“Where is it? Here, in Munich? You… lived here for some years… is it right, Johan?” the voice dressed in white was insistent but contact wasn’t meant to succeed. 

‘Had you a home in Munich, Johan? Were you that lucky?’ Yet it required no time to comprehend that there was no cottage in the Bavarian forests for Johan to call home. 

Home… 

“Anna was his home, but not anymore.” Johan explained, eager to make sense to himself. “The door was shut down… Anna left…” 

And then everything turned suddenly black, for Johan and me, right before an alarmed voice yelled at him and arms tried to stop the fall. 

The body had been sick enough times for him to recognize that fevering sensation, like being burn alive. The exhaustion was too much for him to care as hands were constantly touching him, professional, in that impersonal contact of medicine. A cold, wet piece of cloth pressed against the forehead. 

He looked down from the ceiling. His damaged body looking so tiny, like a wooden doll dressed in an ugly green outfit, being puffed up with a dropper like a balloon. Maybe he could fly away from the hospital, through the window, and reach outer space. Obluda was back, it could join. 

Obluda was not happy with that proposition and offered him a severe look, before walking, jumping from one foot to the other in its characteristic idea of steps, out of the room as a couple of nurses left the door open. He could see it leaving through the corridor... was he hungry? 

Back behind his eyes, his hands tried to move, weak, so weak. Only his eyes reached the dropper that turned into a tree. Four different liquids being pumped into his blood. 

He’s bored. 

He’s bored… 

_ “I… I forgive you… Even if we were the only two people left in the whole world… I would forgive you...That is what I can do…” _

Look! Obluda was back, looking through the window. 

“What is that you see?” a muted ask. He always asks. She always asks. 

“Trees, a city. People in white. People in blue. Grass crossed by a path.” It wasn’t as good as Anna, there’s no story attached, just pictures shaped by descriptions. 

_ “Some things can never be amended.” _

It was desolating to think that the closer possession he has to a name is Johan. 

His condition was worsening, and he knew because the people in white forgot he could hear and understand, although he had shown little responsiveness. And he was happy to finally welcome death, even if it was in the hands of a bacteria instead of a gun. 


End file.
